


Alicia Keys

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alicia Keys - Freeform, Angsty Schmoop, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, My headcanon does crack, Post-Adventure of the Three Garridebs, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, They're soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:00:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alicia Keys gave Sherlock Holmes the most human experience he’d had to date. He'd never admit that, of course...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alicia Keys

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea why in the seven layers of hell this song reminded me of Sherlock and John, but here's some cracky sap for ya. There's a link to the song at the beginning of the fic, you should probably give it a listen if you haven't heard it. 
> 
> You can view their relationship any way you like here, because Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are soulmates no matter how the fuck you swing it. This fic is based on the ACD story "The Adventure of the Three Gerridebs", in which Watson gets shot at the end and Holmes flips out. You can look over it [here.](https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/d/doyle/arthur_conan/d75ca/chapter6.html)

[No One: Alicia Keys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rywUS-ohqeE)

She gave Sherlock Holmes the most human experience he’d had to date. 

He’d never admit that of course, but something inside Sherlock did change that night in the hospital waiting room  
even if he couldn’t quite put his finger on it  
even if all of his intelligence and critical thinking and deductive reasoning could not work out why he found himself suddenly close to tears. 

There’s an old saying that when you fall in love, you finally understand all the love songs on the radio. Of course quite a few ordinary human beings find this notion a little silly, never mind a human being like Sherlock Holmes. 

He never even listened to the radio.

Except for the night that he was stuck in the family waiting room for a few hours while John was in surgery. 

He was alone, and he was a wreck.

Lestrade and Molly had left at some point, but not before they’d brought him a blanket and pillow so that he could stretch out on the carpet to wait. He recalled Lestrade promising to return first thing in the morning and at some point he’d curled up with his back to the others because he couldn’t stand the pity radiating from them couldn’t bear their kindness and nothing they said or did could erase the wound in John’s leg.

Shortly after they’d gone, Sherlock took to pacing. 

When pacing had stopped working and when reciting the periodic table had stopped working, the detective threw himself down in a corner and began to actually listen to the music playing softly on the overhead speakers as a means of distraction as a means of keeping his mind from twisting itself apart. He had only ever been interested in classical music, and had certainly never bothered with the popular four chord rubbish that most stations played, but Sherlock knew he would be of no use to John if he ran mad. So he pulled a small blue pill from his inner coat pocket _diazepam 10, For Emergencies Only_ swallowed it, took a few deep breaths and concentrated on the radio.

The first dozen songs made Sherlock want to plug his ears but instead he forced himself to name off the time and key signatures and chord changes of each one, anything to keep his brain occupied. Any distraction. 

It was the thirteenth song that finally got to him. Forty-five seconds in Sherlock found himself with increasing pressure in the corners of his eyes and a painful lump in his throat, both of which precipitated crying. He was more than a little shocked at his body’s reaction; the woman did have a good voice but the song’s format was basic (4/4 time, key of E major) the lyrics simple, and the music definitely fell into the genre referred to as pop (originating around 1950 as a derivation of rock and roll, intended for the masses.) But for some unfathomable reason (Sherlock hoped it was the diazepam) something about the soulful declaration summoned up the essence and image of John in his head, handing him a cup of tea, laughing at something he’d said, taking his shaking hand and telling him everything was going to be all right as they loaded John into the back of the ambulance.  
Sherlock shuddered at the recent memory thought back to when he’d struck Evans down with one blow when he’d fought every cold furious sociopathic tendency in his being not to bring the butt of the gun down again over the man’s head  
and again and again  
until the skull cracked until he was just mashing bone into grey matter until every nerve synapse in Evans’ body had been slowly driven from him until he lay shattered  
on the floor with his brains splattered all over the room. And Sherlock knew that he would have done it, would do it a thousand times to a thousand men to anybody who dared to threaten John because no one could take John Watson from him

John Watson who had put up with him

John Watson who had sacrificed for him

who took care of him

who loved him.

_No one._

Then Sherlock had to laugh a bit because he was in tears over a pop ballad because a pop ballad of all things had somehow somehow somehow driven the conclusion into his sedated brain that he cared for John more than he would ever care for himself and he didn’t give a damn what it meant or who knew or what they thought. He did could not live without John Watson. 

Sherlock wiped his eyes on his sleeve and entertained the idea of adapting the song [for the violin.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMIBpi58sxk)

At half past one in the morning both a nurse and doctor came to tell Sherlock that the surgery had gone well and that John would be walking normally again in a few weeks. Even though John was still sleeping the doctor decided to allow Sherlock to be with him—perhaps because Sherlock was listed as John's medical proxy and emergency contact, perhaps because the man sensed how hard Sherlock was working to maintain the last thin shred of his composure. Or perhaps Mycroft had already gotten to the doctor with money or threats. Sherlock did not question it.

When he entered the room (a private one, thank you again Mycroft) his friend lay deathly still on the double bed, unconscious and drugged up and dialed in. The top of his left thigh was bandaged and he was very pale but his heart rate, oxygen sats and blood pressure were all at acceptable levels given the state he was in. Sherlock wedged a chair in between the i v stand and the heart monitor and took John’s hand in his. At the touch a little wave of calm broke over him. He was surprised at how the contact soothed him so quickly at how all tension in his chest slipped away and he could breathe deeply again. 

Aside from Mrs. Hudson, John was the only person whose touch did not make Sherlock cringe.

Whose touch he sought.

Sherlock scooted closer to rest his head on the pillow next to John’s shoulder nuzzled his forehead into John’s arm and breathed. Underneath the bleached sheets and disinfectant, John smelled of Home.

Although Sherlock was completely exhausted and still feeling the diazepam’s effects he’d already decided that the only acceptable course of action was to watch over John all night. So he sat up straight again keeping ahold of his friend’s hand. The moon was new so the only light source came from the cracked-open door, and Sherlock fancied that if he stayed still long enough he could fade into the black and nobody would notice or bother him until John woke.

He dissipated into the air like a vapour. He dissolved into a wraith into pure energy into a familiar standing guard over its summoner. It would not be moved. 

And dawn would still find it there, a long shadow hunched in the chair  
white fingers wrapped around the sleeping man’s hand  
and a low dark voice humming very, very softy along to a tune in its head

_No one, no one, no one_

_Can get in the way of what i’m feeling_

_No one, no one, no one_

_Can get in the way of what i feel for you_

**Author's Note:**

> Yes the weird jarring run-on sentences are on purpose; it's Sherlock after all. All feedback is greatly appreciated, it took some courage on my part to post this odd little fic. 
> 
> **Note to myself** : i put a hyperlink in the middle of the whole damn thing...but it was necessary. i think :/


End file.
